Tuesday, 20 January 2015


I'm feeling kind of creatively frustrated; I don't know what medium to channel my creative/nervous energy into. It's not a tangible feeling, just an internal compulsion to make something, somehow, which is proving to be difficult due to my perfectionism. I bought a journal last month and have done pretty much 0 in it (which I predicted), but am trying to work through my inhibitions of doing something 'wrong'/messy and just do something. Right now my substitute is listening to Tricky 24/7. I've written a post about him before and my commitment is proving to be lifelong - still in love with almost every one of his songs. 
Line from Christiansands that's been stuck in my head: "Always, what does that mean?/ Forever, what does that mean?/ It means we'll manage, master your language/ And in the meantime, I create my own"

GCSEs are still pretty overwhelming, although I'm actually enjoying all my subjects (and becoming more and more appreciative of the chilled out attitude of dance; the luxury of having only the music and the counts and the corrections in my head instead of maths equations or something). But the looming prospects of 6th form, university, FUTURE, just seems more surreal now. Each good grade becomes more and more meaningless - we are trained to write the right thing over and over again so we can get the right mark so we can get the right job...where's the break from this systematic approach to education? It seems as though there'll never be space to breathe, we're just shipped from one obligation to another. But at the same time I thrive on doing well - I'm a willing slave to the system. 
I say I want to have a job in science, maybe biology, but this seems less appealing over time. I want to have the cool, artistic lives of Rookie writers and of all the musicians, writers etc. that I admire. But that's even harder in some ways - it requires real passion, which I lack for any specific thing.

Also realisations about the relentlessness of time have been hitting me recently - like, I'll never be 13 ever again. I'll have memories, pictures, writing, but I'll never physically be 13 again. I never fully thought about this until recently - maybe some kind of teenage 'forever' mentality/ignorance kept a kind of translucent barrier between being like "aha i'm so young though" and "hey, my teen years are limited, I'll only ever get older. And then die." This is pretty terrifying, because for some reason I had some weird internal assumption that I can go back in time. Not literally go back in time, but in some place between reality and imagination where there are small pockets I can slip back into. An assumption that time isn't fully linear.

Happy 2015, ghost readers.